UNINHABITED - by Diana Harrison

TKnC loves welcoming new contributors...

Uninhabited

Mark was an exemplar model for a house agent.

He set great store by providing a good service to both sellers and vendors and making a decent profit from both.

And it was with this in mind that Mark accepted a request to value an apartment in a recently erected building on the north side of the city.

Mark was surprised, it had been the last one to be sold in the building and, now it seemed it would be the first one to be resold.

He’d hesitated initially, an anxious knot in his gut, but he shrugged the feelings away. He could get someone else to go later but Mark picked up on the seller’s anxiety to move so he suggested immediately that he might have a buyer on his books, at the ‘right’ price.

From the seller’s reaction Mark knew that he could buy the property himself, put it in a fictitious name, and sell it on at a handsome profit.

He tried to keep the note of pure pleasure from his voice as he metaphorically rubbed his hands with glee.

Mark hadn’t been near the site of the apartment for years. His business was on the south side of the city. And that’s where his sales came from because he portrayed himself as ‘the man who had local knowledge’, although he knew every house, and its value, that came on the market.

The place he was travelling to was formerly an old factory site, next to the canal, in the centre of town which, before being designated as ‘brown field’ land, had become the haunt of drug pushers, alkies and general ‘down and outs’.

Then the horrific murder of a young girl in a derelict warehouse, her body left undiscovered from the winter to the spring, hidden under a pile of bricks. That is until kids playing football found her remains.

It caused an outcry from the public, and a call for the area to be cleaned up.

Twenty years later the landscape had changed completely and it had become an up-market address.

It was late in the day when he arrived. The seller would be out but had made arrangements for Mark to pick up the key from the Concierge.

He liked what he saw and to the few who knew him, his smile depicted greedy anticipation. A killing to be made here, he thought.

The apartment was on the ground floor, which, although not to Mark’s taste, he had a detached house in the suburbs, it would appeal to many.

Mark stopped at the unmanned reception and collected the key, which had been left in a small brown envelope with his name on, and he frowned at the lackadaisical security but then just shrugged his shoulders and made his way to the underground car park.

He locked his car and walked to the lift. He thought he heard soft footsteps behind him but shook the feelings of foreboding away. A cold, damp, nasty place he decided, and made a mental note not to bring any vendors down here until he’d sold the apartment to them.

The lights in the corridor flickered and Mark grumbled that he understood why the seller wanted to move. The service was dreadful. He’d ‘kick butt’ if he bought the place he muttered to the shadows.

He wasn’t superstitious, he turned the key in the door of number thirteen with hardly a second thought, but as he went inside he started to feel uneasy.

His breath came in short bursts as he felt for the light switch then laughed with relief as light flooded the room deciding it was the time of year when the night creeps up, then overwhelms, as it plunges day into night.

Mark walked into the main living room and deposited his briefcase on the coffee table. The apartment was definitely minimalist he thought as he snapped the metal clasps open and extracted pencil, paper and laser measure from inside the case.

Had he not spoken to the seller, Mark would’ve thought the apartment was empty. Not a sign of a living being was apparent. Either the seller used the place like a hotel or had an excellent cleaner. It was probably owned by a professional person, who worked in the city, and went home at weekends, Mark decided.

In every room he had to switch on the lights, which was odd, because contrary to his earlier belief, the papery winter sun was still shining outside.

‘Ideal summer aspect’ he noted on the paper, rather than, as he suspected, an unpleasant north east situation whatever the season.

And it was cold. The same as it had been in the underground car park and the corridor.

Mark checked the central heating boiler. It purred softly. Then he looked at the thermostat. It was set at twenty one degrees Celsius. Perfect.

He fastened the buttons of his double breasted, blue pinstripe tailor made suit and continued to measure the rooms.

The laser measure shot red points, like splatters of blood, across the cream carpeted room and Mark trembled and cursed as he dropped the knife, no, the laser measure, on the floor.

Mark’s earlier, sick-in-the-stomach feeling had returned and he decided the sooner he got out of here, the better. His throat dry, he got a glass from the stainless steel kitchen and turned on the tap. He dropped the glass as a viscous glop of blood dripped from it. Then as he watched the liquid cleared and fresh water washed the red stains away.

He knew he was being foolish. Even new buildings occasionally suffered the odd discolouration in water pipes. But he decided not to have a drink.

He finished looking at the two bedrooms, sitting room, and kitchen and decided that it wasn’t such a bad place when he noticed another door off the hall. It was a laundry room, study or maybe storage. Whatever, he murmured to himself, he’d have to open it.

Mark found himself looking down at a set of stone stairs.

Odd, he thought, as he turned to go.

Then he hesitated.

He’d never seen a basement in an apartment.

Mark couldn’t see further than a few steps down because, like the rest of the apartment, it was dark. He moved downwards to feel along the bare brick wall for a switch. As he let go of the door it slammed behind him. His body prickled with fear but he told himself not to be a ‘drama queen’. The phrase made him think of his teenage daughter’s tantrums. She wanted to grow up too quickly.

He tried to hum and whistle as his fingers got covered with cobwebs and tiny creatures skittered over his hands, but he could do neither. He suffered from shortness of breath; an affliction bought on by the good life of too much food, whisky and cigarettes.

Then his feet touched level solid ground and he breathed a sigh of relief. He stood still trying to get used to the half light which was coming from a small high window at the opposite end of the room.

A feeling of relief flooded through him. It was only an empty room. He almost laughed out loud. He was ‘a big girl’s blouse’. That’s what his father called him if he ever showed any emotion.

Mark climbed back up the stairs to open the door.

It wouldn’t budge.

He cursed these new, badly built apartments fashioned with unseasoned cheap wood. It would have been better to have converted the old factory rather than knock it down. A building made to last.

But it hadn’t lasted because people wanted to wipe out the memories.

As that thought trickled into the pathways of Mark’s mind perspiration trickled over his body.

Mark knew he shouldn’t have come here. He shouldn’t have let greed override caution and skew the sense of preservation that had helped to keep the demons away for twenty years.

He banged his fists and kicked his feet on the door until the futility of his actions registered on him.

He sat on the top step and cried with frustration until he felt embarrassed at his actions and felt in his pocket for a handkerchief. There, to his relief, was his mobile phone. Immediately he felt so relieved. If only mobile phones had been around all those years ago. He’d have phoned for help. He’d never have left her to die, although the little tart, with her mini skirt, asked for all she got. He didn’t mean cut her, just frighten her a bit, although she’d struggled and he’d panicked. The newspapers at the time said she’d slowly bled to death.

He didn’t know she was only thirteen did he?

Mark used the speed dial on his phone to contact the office.

There was no signal.

As he cursed he missed his footing on the steps and fell, the phone torn from his hand, and heard the sickening sound of smashed bone as he hit the floor.

A moment, a minute, an hour later, Mark opened his eyes, unsure of where he was, and with a nasty metallic taste in his mouth. He slowly, painfully, pushed himself to sitting position, and looked around. Then he remembered falling down the stairs.

The door and steps had disappeared and he looked around and realised that he was in an old warehouse; like the one he’d taken the girl to, twenty years ago.

He’d been drunk and had a row with his girlfriend. He walked home alone and met this girl. She’d wanted it. Why else was she out alone in this area? She’d resisted and he’d called her a tease.

Then Mark’s broken legs throbbed as he again recalled the reports in the newspaper about the runaway. A teenager who’d had a row with her dad.

Mark rubbed his head to push the memories away. And he decided he’d taken a bump to the head to imagine that he was back in that awful place. He was down the basement of the apartment and he only had to pull himself back up the stairs and wait by the door for the seller to come back.

He crawled across the floor and then relief flooded through him and his laughter rang out manically as he discovered a change in floor level.

He’d found the stairs again.

But as he tried to move to standing position, the bricks gave way and they tumbled over him.

So Mark, in the darkness, waited like the girl, broken, bruised, bleeding and covered in bricks, for someone to find him.

A few months later the apartment was sold by another house agent who remarked that he’d never found a place so bright, warm and peaceful.

BIO:
After taking early retirement Diana has devoted time to writing, forming 'Worcester Wordsmiths' with some friends, and has had short stories published in The Lady and My Weekly, plus 3rd place in a Writers Mag' comp' & twice being short listed. Best achievement: a Western to be published by Robert Hale, July 2010.

A SPECK OF DUST - by David Barber

A Speck Of Dust

A mahogany table sat in the middle of the small room, coffee stains and scratches adorned the once polished surface. There was a chair on either side and I was seated in the one near the window, my rucksack on the floor by my feet. The one near the door was empty but would soon be filled by ‘Stilts’ the loan shark. His real name was Kelvin West, not a likeable character. He wasn’t a hard man either, but he was a nasty fucker and whatever he wanted doing got done by his two henchmen, ‘Shorty’ and ‘Titch’. You see though, and here’s the ironic part, ‘Shorty’ was six feet five and eighteen stone of pure muscle and ‘Titch’ was six feet three and twenty stone with fists like sledgehammers.

The door opened, a huge hand holding the tarnished brass door handle. The ugly, oversized head of Titch peered round the door.

“Stilts is on his way.” The door closed.

Wish he’d fucking hurry up, I thought to myself. The room stunk. I couldn’t quite put my finger on what the smell was but it wasn’t pleasant.

The door opened again and closed shut. A shuffling of feet accompanied the top of the head I could see on the other side of the table. You guessed it, Stilts or Kelvin, was a midget. He climbed onto the chair opposite me, standing on it with his hands on the table and leaning forward. His suit was immaculate, Armani or Hugo Boss or something like that. The only good thing about sitting across from him was the welcome break from the stench in the room that his cologne masked.

“So, let’s get names out of the way. I’m Kelvin, more commonly known as Stilts.” His voice made me think of the times when I’d been at parties and sucked the helium out of the balloons on the tables.

“Erm, yeah I know, your reputation precedes you. I’m Dave, Dave Preston.”

“Ok Dave, now that’s out of the way. What can I do for you?”

“I was hoping to borrow ten grand for a bit of business I’ve got coming my way.”

“What business?”

“I’d rather not say.”

“Ok, ok,” Stilts said, waving his stubby hands in the air, “None of my business, I know, I know. Well I don’t know you and you’ve never had money from me before so here’s the deal. Ten grand, forty eight hour turn around and I get eleven back. If it’s business then you’ll be making a tidy profit yourself, Dave.”

“What if I can’t have it back for you in that time, it may take a few more days than that. Can’t you just give it me and I’ll have it back for you in a week or so. The deal’s not fully sorted yet.”

“Well that’s not my fucking problem is it you lanky bastard. Don’t fuck me around, Dave. Ten grand, two days I’ve said and that’s final!” Pointing a little stubby finger at me he continued, “You’re nothing to me. See that,” he pointed down at the table, “A speck of dust, you’re nothing but a speck of dust and I could have you wiped away as easy as that.” Stilts brushed his hand across the table then looked back at me, a smirk on his ugly face.

I stared at his oversized head sticking out of the starched, white shirt collar. How the fuck did he get away with all this bravado. I could kill the little shit with both arms tied behind my back, if it wasn’t for the two ‘apes’ outside the closed door behind him.

“Look, Stilts, you’ll just have to put some extra interest on what I lend off you.”

“Don’t tell me what I’ll have to fucking do. You want this money or not? It aint my problem that your ‘deal’ aint ready yet. I loan you, I want it back. I always get my money back, but when I don’t, I get little pieces of you until you pay up.”

Stilts opened the drawer on his side of the table and pulled out five wads of notes and a small box. He looked at me and then took the lid off the box and emptied the contents onto the table. Fingers fell onto the surface, one of which, I noticed, left a bloody mark as it bounced.

“Ok, Ok,” I said, “I’ll take the deal,” I leant down and picked up my rucksack, moving stuff around inside it.

“That’s better Dave. It makes sense to stay on my good side. I don’t want to have to hurt you: you seem a decent chap ‘n’ all. Let’s just get this sort…..”

I cut him short with the Glock I had in my hand.

“Don’t even think about shouting your gorillas. You know Kelvin, you are one piece of shit and you’ve threatened the wrong person. I guess it’s you who’s ‘a speck of dust’ now.”

Stilts put his hands up just as I pulled the trigger. The bullet went though his right hand and straight into his face. The back of his head exploded onto the door behind him, a fraction before the force of the shot threw him backwards off the chair. The door flew open, pushing Stilts dead body like it was a little rag doll, and I fired off two shots, hitting Titch in the chest with both. His enormous frame fell backwards into the hallway. I heard the sound of running and ran to the door just in time to get another three rounds out of the gun, hitting Shorty in the back of the head, blood and skull exploding forwards as he fell to the ground.

“All bravado, ‘n’ no balls.”

I walked back into the room and picked up the money and the bloodied finger from the table. I put the money in the rucksack: Stilts wouldn’t be needing that any more.

“Nobody fucks with my family,” I said, putting my uncle’s finger in my pocket.

BIO:
Manchester born and bred, but now living in Crieff, Scotland with wife, Lisa, and our two daughters, Imogen & Melissa. Recently inspired to write again by an old and good friend (Col Bury) and the beauty that surrounds me up here. Always reading - when not entertaining my girls and working - crime and horror…and now writing. David blogs here.

DOPPELGANGER By J.R. Lindermuth

Halloween's coming, and here's a great chiller to get you in the mood...

DOPPELGANGER


The old man they had dubbed “the priest” sat in the shadows on the edge of the circle, sipping chocolate, listening to the conversation, but not participating.

The old man fired Harry Stryker’s curiosity and his reporter’s instinct made him want to draw the man out.

Most of the afternoon, their talk had focused on the supernatural. They sat through the gloomy hours before the fireplace, drinking mugs of hot chocolate or toddies, smoking and confessing tales each had previously kept locked in the private closet of mind and heart.

Perhaps it was the weather, gray and dreary with periods of heavy rain that melted the last of the snow and kept them inside and apart from the pursuit for which they had come to the lodge, that turned, first their minds, then their conversation, to a consideration of this morbid subject matter.

They had come to ski and now, frustrated by the vagaries of nature, their talk conformed with the circumstance and unfolded the gloom and depression they felt; the unspeakable was made vocal and drew them to probe the darkness of their souls and tell what each had witnessed, or heard, or supposed.

Stryker, more widely traveled than the others and, thus, with more to say, held the floor longer than the rest, recounting his experiences with the strange in Asia and Mexico; there was more he could have said if he’d wanted to retain the spotlight. But he didn’t. He wanted the “priest” to speak. He was intrigued by this old man who seemed so out of place in these surroundings. Who came to a ski lodge in a three-piece suit? The man was as pale as snow, white-haired and frail. Definitely not a skier. So what was he doing here?

Stryker recalled the old man had been garrulous at dinner the night before but he hadn’t really told them anything about himself. Not even his name.

The reporter sensed another story.

Each of the group had his turn until a period of silence prevailed and it appeared the stock of stories had been used up. Bored, or in search of a drink, their companions filed off until only Stryker and the “priest” were left.

Stryker rose from his armchair and sidled up to the old man. “How about you?”

“Hmph?” The man raised his head and his clear blue eyes bore straight into Stryker’s.

“I said, what about you? We didn’t hear a spook story from you.”

The old man raised a thin white hand and shook his head. “I’m sorry,” he said. “It’s been very interesting, but I have nothing to add.”

“Oh, everybody has a story,” Stryker coaxed.

“I’m afraid I don’t.”

Stryker remained hovering over the old man, his mind still riveted on the subject, though at any other time he might have been as game for a drink as the others.

“Sit down, Harry,” the old man said, “you’re making me nervous.”

Stryker slid onto the chair next to him, lit a cigarette and blew smoke. “So we’re alone now. Are you gonna indulge me or what?”

“I’d rather not,” the old man said, waving smoke away with one hand.

“Bother you?”

“It’s not good for anybody.”

Harry leaned toward him, holding the cigarette so the smoke curled up between them. “I’ll put it out if you’ll talk.”

The old man shook his head and smiled. “You wouldn’t believe me anyway.”

Angrily, Stryker turned on him. “How do you know? I didn’t challenge the others, did I?”

“No, you didn’t. But you didn’t believe them either.”

“So, maybe you’ll have a better story.”

The man gave him a thin smile, but said nothing. With a long white finger he flicked a speck of lint from his sleeve.

“You’re a reticent cuss, aren’t you? I don’t think you even told us your name last night.”

Rain drummed against the roof and ran in a steady stream off the eaves. Down the hall they heard the jukebox kick on in the bar. The music thumped in an unintelligible rhythmic vibration along the far wall.

“You may call me Nick.”

“So what’s your story, Nick?”

The man smiled again, gazing at him wistfully. “I was much like you once,” he said.

“What? You were a reporter?”

Nick chuckled. “No. I meant ambitious, curious and brash.”

“It goes with the territory,” Stryker said with a shrug. “I wouldn’t be much of a journalist otherwise.” A hint of perfume from one of the women still hung in the room mingled with the stale scent of his cigarette but Stryker was surprised as he shifted closer to Nick the pithy medicinal dry flesh odor he associated with the elderly was missing. Instead he could have sworn he smelled the sharp tang of ozone.

“Of course you wouldn’t,” Nick was saying. “As I said, I was much the same. I was a lawyer. I didn’t believe a thing unless the facts were there to back it up.”

Stryker nodded. He snuffed his cigarette, sensing that the old man finally was leading up to a story and not wanting to annoy him by continuing to smoke.

“Facts are very important to you, too, aren’t they, Harry?”

“Sure.”

“That’s why you listened politely to their stories, though you didn’t believe them. Even when you presented your own tales you went to great lengths to seek logical answers for what happened.”

“Right.”

“But sometimes there is no logical explanation.”

Stryker shook his head. “There’s always…”

“No, there isn’t. I felt the same until I met a man who showed me there are no facts, only possibilities.”

“Ahah,” Stryker said, sitting up and slapping his thigh. “So there is a story.”

Nick’s eyes, dilated but with a queer yearning in them, turned on him. The old man sighed and folded his hands over his breast.

Stryker waited, his heart beating anxiously.

“Not much of one,” Nick said in a muted voice. “Just an experience. Since you insist, I’ll relate it.”

“I’m all ears.”

“Do you know the German term doppelganger?”

“Sure. A double. A look-alike.”

“Not exactly. More accurately, one who walks in our place.”

“Whatever.”

“They exist. They come out of nowhere and suck up your life like the rain melting the snow on the slopes. They take everything—family and friends, possessions, your very existence—leaving you with nothing.”

He said it so profoundly, Stryker could only grin.

“Oh, I know you don’t believe me,” Nick said. “I said you wouldn’t. But it’s true.”

“I guess you’re gonna tell me it happened to you.”

The music vibrated between them, an invisible curtain of sound.

“Indeed,” Nick said, solemnly.

“You saw yourself?”

“No. I met a man who became me.”

Stryker laughed. “So now there are two of you?”

The old man scowled and Stryker struggled to presume a serious interest in the tale. “Go on,” he said. “Please.”

Nick gazed at him, steadily, but with something akin to compassion reflected in his pale eyes. “I know. You’re a skeptic. I was, too,” he said, calmly. “But that was before.

“Before he came to my office, I’d probably passed by him a dozen times or more on the street without giving him notice. But he had been observing me. He knew all about me.

“That day, when he came to my office, I assumed he was just another potential client. I didn’t fear him. In fact, I probably looked down on him. I was the great lawyer. He was nobody. Oh, if I had only known!”

Stryker leaned forward, intrigued by the old man’s sudden burst of passion. “Who was he?”

“Who he was is not important. Then he was nobody. Later, he became me.”

“I don’t understand. What are you talking about?”

Nick sneered, giving him a sidelong glance. “Understand? Of course you don’t understand. We never do, do we? Not until it’s too late.”

Suddenly, Stryker shuddered. He had a sense of regret for goading the old man to talk. The poor old guy was crazy and here he was encouraging his paranoia.

“You don’t understand, but you will,” Nick said.

Stryker shuddered again. He craved another cigarette, but even more he wanted to get away from this crazy old man.

Nick leaned down and untied his shoes. He pulled one off, rubbed his foot. “Do you mind?” he asked. “My feet are swollen.” Smiling, he stretched out his hand and laid it on Stryker’s knee. “You don’t know what it’s like to get old.”

Stryker jerked his leg away, repulsed.

As though he hadn’t noticed, the old man reclined in his seat, legs stretched out before him, hands laced together over his stomach. “It was all really my own fault,” he said in a voice barely audible. “I see that now. I took for granted what I had. I was vain and arrogant. I took advantage of those I considered beneath me. He knew all that. He came to make me better.”

Stryker squirmed in his seat.

Then Nick turned and looked at him again and he felt an icy chill as those blue eyes focused on him. He jerked convulsively. The old man laughed. It was more a raspy bark than a derisive crow.

Nick reached out and touched him once more with just the tips of his fingers.

Stryker bolted from his chair. “I’m sorry,” he sputtered, “I’ve just remembered something important I have to do.”

“Of course,” Nick said, smiling.

Stryker felt as though he had fallen into a pit of snakes. He felt queer, unclean. Hurrying down the hall to join the others, he wanted nothing so much as a drink. But as he came abreast of the restrooms, another need summoned. He wanted to cleanse himself, to wash away the old man’s touch.

The hot water seared his flesh and Stryker didn’t care. He scrubbed and scrubbed until he thought the skin would peel away. Then, satisfied at last, he shut off the tap and shook water from his hands. The music from the juke box throbbed behind him and, for a moment, the mirror was obscured by rising steam from the sink.

As the steam cleared and Stryker reached for a paper towel, he glanced into the mirror.

“No!” The word came without thought as he beheld the sight before him. Gazing into the glass he saw not his own face but that of the old man.

BIO:

John Lindermuth is a published author. See below for more info

Watch The Hour (April 2009), Whiskey Creek Press
Corruption's Child (June 2008), Whiskey Creek Press
http://www.jrlindermuth.com/

TRAVELING INCOGNITO by George W. Morrow

TknC welcomes George with this little thriller...

TRAVELING INCOGNITO



Marcia relaxed in her green wicker chair. She treasured the time she spent in her garden; when she exchanged her business suit for blue jeans, white long-sleeved shirt, clogs and pink braid wide-brimmed hat. The soil felt good on her hands, and made her feel she accomplished something by physical labor. A soft, morning breeze swept through her blonde hair. The tall, willowy thirty-five year old lawyer tried to set aside the personal problems which plagued her in recent days. Her garden provided a respite from the world, a place where she forgot the husband who did not love her and married her for her money.
Marcia spent five years developing her rectangular garden. The garden measured thirty-eight feet by twenty-two. An eight foot grey, concrete wall encircled it. Marcia planted pear, Japanese maple, apple and Italian cypress trees along the wall to make sure no one peered over the wall into the garden. Entrance to the garden came by a wrought iron gate. Marcia planted an island bed of irises just inside the gate. She constructed a fish pond stocked with flashing fish and water lilies next to the island bed. A bluestone pathway leads to the interior patio. Marcia stocked the garden with larkspur, love-in-mist, foxglove and poppies. Smiling polystone garden cherubs peeked out from behind purple sage and held out chubby, little fingers filled with lemon gem marigolds. The delicious scent of golden honeysuckle permeated the garden.
This kaleidoscope of colors earned Marcia’s garden a review in a prominent national gardening magazine. Her estranged husband, Matt, read it while he vacationed in Florida. He wrote congratulation.
“Great article, Marcia. You’ve done a first class job on that garden. How about coming down here and we’ll talk things over?”
She flew down the next morning. They spent their time visiting Disneyworld, the zoo and walking the beach.
“Can we start again ,Matt ?’ she asked him. “I’ve made mistakes, but I feel we could make a go of it if we both tried.”
“Marcia, we’ve been over this a hundred times. I don’t want to be tied down.”
“Is that your final answer?”
“Yes, it is.”
“I’ll never forgive you as long as I live. Don’t count on my generosity. I’ll fight you with everything I have.”
She left on the first plane without taking her belongings. Several days later he sent them to her along with a note.
“I think we both lost our temper and we need time to think about it. P.S. I’m sending you a gift you can use in your garden. Hope you enjoy it.”
That gift arrived this very morning. A postal letter carrier rang her door bell while she slept. Matt sent his surprise in a box three feet by two feet. The box carried the warning: LIVE PLANTS. The letter carrier helped Marcia carry it into the garden. To her delight, the box contained a Florida sunflower ready for transplant to her Oregon garden. The plant came encased in the loamy soil and debris of Florida. Its yellow petals added another dimension to her garden.
Marcia’s black Turkish Angora cat, Dominic, jumped into her lap.
“What have you got, Dominic?”
The cat held a red garter snake in its mouth. Marcia knocked the snake out of the cat’s mouth.
“If there is anything I hate, its snakes.” She tossed the snake into the shrubs.
A few minutes later, she noticed Dominic playing with something else. She saw movement underneath the sunflower, the ground opened up and a snake popped its head from among the soil debris. This reptile differed from an ordinary garter snake. This snake had a cylindrical body and appeared to be about three feet long. The most striking feature about the snake was the alternating bands of yellow, black and red that encircled its body.
“If I didn’t know better, I would say this is a coral snake, like the one I saw at the Florida zoo. But, coral snakes don’t inhabit Oregon.”
When Patrick and Marcia visited the zoo, they went to the serpentarium to see the poisonous snakes indigenous to Florida. The eastern coral snake fascinated Marcia with its brilliant yellow, black and red bands.
“It’s so beautiful, yet so deadly,” she said. The printed information on the snake cage justified her trepidation.
Species: Micrurus Fulvius. Its venom: a neurotoxin which paralyzes the breathing muscles. Fatality rate: very high. Victim dies from suffocation. Coral snakes have short fangs; therefore, they must chew into their victims, and it takes longer for them to inject their venom. They often hang on to the victim after the bite is delivered.
“Many people get bitten when they are gardening,” said Patrick. “The snakes bite them in the soft spot between their fingers. Lucky you aren’t gardening in Florida.”
The zoo information ended with the warning that coral snakes are often confused with non-venomous snakes having similar body markings- with fatal consequences for humans. The information contained a couplet:
“Red on black, friend of jack.
Red on yellow, kill a fellow.”
Marcia examined the snake at her feet. Yellow, black and red bands encircled the snake’s body. If a red band abutted a black band, a human would be safe. If a red band abutted a yellow band, the human stood in peril of their life.
Marcia asked herself. Did red and yellow bands touch? They did. She asked herself two more questions. First, why did the snake not bite her when she worked on the sunflower? She wore her cowhide gloves which probably protected her. Second, and more perplexing, how did the snake get to Oregon from Florida? It arrived inside the box delivered by the letter carrier. It traveled incognito under the cover of soil and debris. How did the snake get into the box? If a florist prepared the plant for shipment, certain the snake would be discovered. The snake must be put into the box on purpose. Patrick sent her the box. The conclusion: Patrick put the snake in the box.
“No need to ask why. So, he would kill me. I didn’t believe he would go that far. I’ll call the police in Florida and…”
She did not finish. The snake moved toward her. She recalled reading of the coral snake’s docile disposition, but some human mistreated this snake, with the clear intention of antagonizing it and making it ready to bite the first human it encountered. The snake fascinated her now as at the zoo. Its beautiful coloration enchanted her. The only ugly feature of the reptile came from its flat, bulbous head with the yellow stripe encircling it. The round black pupils surveyed her, its adversary. For one instant, when the eyes of reptile and human met, each realized that one of them must die. Each sensed the other’s fear.
Marcia knew the best way to handle a poisonous snake would be to freeze, allow the snake to withdraw then step away. Marcia froze, but when the snake remained still, she panicked and kicked at it. It moved toward her in sidelong, jerky movements. She threw a planting trowel at the snake and hit it. The snake writhed in pain, but slithered into a bed of poppies to recover and conceal itself. It turned to look at her, hissing as if to vow revenge. Marcia must watch every move she made because the snake might charge out from the flower cover. It held the advantage of surprise. Marcia figured she could kill the snake, if she could see it before it saw her. The colorful snake blended so naturally with the garden colors that searching it out and killing it would be too dangerous. She had to get out of the garden. She reached into her pocket for her cell phone, but remembered she’d left it inside her house. The garden entrance gate stood about twenty feet away. She started walking the bluestone path toward the gate when the snake emerged from foxglove flowers onto the pathway in front of her. The snake flattened its body to make itself appear larger. Marcia froze with fear, unable to move. The snake prepared to strike, but Dominic ran between Marcia and the snake and knocked it off the pathway. The snake’s fury turned upon the cat. It struck at the cat, but Dominic escaped into the bushes unharmed.
Now, Marcia unleashed her rage.
“I hate you, you dirty, creepy thing!” She picked up a handful of bluestone pebbles and threw it at the snake. The snake slithered into a hydrangea shrub located near the pond, again concealing itself. She picked up another handful of pebbles and walked toward the gate. As she passed the pond, she saw the flashing fish jumping out of the water. She knew the reason why they did. She came within six feet of the gate when a snake crossed her path. Her heart skipped its beats, but it proved to be a harmless garter snake, possibly the one that Dominic found earlier. The coral snake came from out of a bed of lavender lace, grabbed the garter snake and devoured it. Marcia did not wait. She ran to the gate. The mail truck passed by her home and she yelled “Help!”, but the driver did not hear her. She tried to open the gate, but found the lock jammed. She took off her left-hand glove to get a firmer grip on the gate lock, and this time succeeded in opening the gate.
“I’ve done it!”
She took one step and remembered her glove. A good gardener does not forget a glove. She looked around for the discarded glove and found it in the iris bed. She reached down for it with her right hand, and when she lifted it up, she found the coral snake chewing on the forefinger of the glove. She squeezed the snake’s head in an attempt to loosen its grip, but the soil on her fingers made it difficult to obtain a firm hold. She could feel the snake gnawing at her glove finger, and knew that a bite would occur within moments. She screamed for help. She squeezed harder on the snake’s head and it gnawed faster. She heard footsteps. Someone was walking on her sidewalk.
“Help! I’m in here. A poisonous snake is attacking me! Hurry!”
“Miss Gilmore, are you all right? This is Kevin, your mail carrier.”
“I’m being attacked by a coral snake. Help me!”
The mail carrier grabbed a nearby shovel and knocked the snake off Marcia’s arm.
Later, emergency medical technicians confirmed that Marcia did not suffer a bite. Animal control caught the snake and removed it.
“It’s a female,” they told Marcia. “She just about chewed into your glove. Another minute and you would have had a nasty bite.”
“Why did you come back here, Kevin?” Marcia asked her carrier.
“That package I delivered to you this morning was a registered mail and it needed to be signed for by you. I forgot to get your signature when I was here before. Lucky I remembered it.”
“You can expect a nice tip for Christmas.”
Marcia went back to the garden patio to retrieve her hat. She saw Dominic playing around the Florida sunflower, and felt safe once more in her garden. Marcia went inside to a hot bath. She did not see the new toys Dominic found. The five capsule-shaped eggs lay amidst the garden leaves. The coral snake had given birth in Marcia’s garden.

DARK WATER - by A J Humpage

Pour yourself a drink and enjoy this absolute cracker from AJ...

DARK WATER

An eye stared at her through the murk - a black orb glimpsed in torchlight - then it was gone.

The frenzy stopped. Bits of flesh slowly floated down from the surface like snow. Pink snow. Clouds of blood spread quickly from torn limbs, leaving spiralling, inky trails.

She knew Ben was dead. The shark had taken both legs and most of his arm. Gnawed lumps of sinew dangled in the water – tasty morsels for scavenging fish. Fading sunlight broke through the water and silhouetted his broken body with a dappled halo.

She choked back her emotion. She wanted to vomit, but couldn’t. Somewhere in this darkness lurked the sleek, thick-skinned monster that had attacked her fiancé. Blood in the water would bring more. And she dared not leave the sanctuary of the rocks.

But there was only 20 minutes air left in the tank.

She had to do something, otherwise she would die. She could die quickly; let herself drown. Or she could die slowly, painfully, ripped open by the shark.

Movement in the water made her heart jolt.

A thin snouted barracuda swept by. She cursed herself for letting Ben talk her into doing a late afternoon dive. Although an accomplished diver, she had never felt at ease whenever the sun dipped below the horizon. In daylight, it was easy to see what was lurking in the water behind her, but the blackness of the evening was different. With only a flashlight, it was almost impossible to know what was behind her, until it was too late. She would see nothing and she would hear nothing. She would only hear her own muffled screams clogging the blackness.

She sank further into the coral-encrusted crevice, and slowly swept the torchlight through the darkness. She half expected a sharp row of teeth to emerge from the gloom in a sudden attack, but there was nothing; just her own thudding heartbeat loud in her ears.

She glanced up. The rounded belly of the boat was just visible, but still a distance away. She could swim for it, but she knew the shark would sense her, smell her, and make a move. She would have to ascend quickly; making sure that the beast was within range so that she could see it approach, and she could defend herself.

The light was fading fast. She wouldn’t be able to see the boat much longer.

She swallowed the knot in her throat, felt the approaching darkness squeeze around her. The claustrophobic grip pinched at her nerves, and she shivered. She was vulnerable.

Alone.

Something brushed past her and she spun, saw only a flutter of bubbles. The urge to scream was strong, but doing so would mean panic, and the noise would bring the shark. Not only that, the regulator would drop from her mouth and there was risk she would drown through her terror.

Another bump against her thigh.

She swung her torch through the black soup. The rocky outcrop protecting her came into view and disappeared back into the undulating maw. She shone the torch at her feet. Nothing. Just shapes moving at the bottom; brightly coloured tropical fish flitted from her light.

She shone the torch above. Beams of fading light reached down and dappled the blackness. A large shadow briefly darkened her view and then disappeared. Her heart quickened; blood began frosting her veins.

The shark. He was circling her.

Every cell in her body swelled with anxiety. Bubbles from her regulator flooded into the darkness, rising swiftly...alerting the beast to her hiding place.

She saw a shape fill her vision, almost upon her.

She tried to wedge herself further into the rocks, but the passage was too narrow. She looked up, desperate not to scream, saw a flash of teeth. She jerked around, frantically trying to hide, but she felt something jolt her with tremendous force, dragging her from the crevice.

Her body bounced along the rocks. Pain shot into her left leg like an electric current. She screamed, lost the regulator from her mouth. Water rushed in, flooded her lungs, and she gagged, frantically grasping for the regulator, spewing out excess water, then holding her breath.

The pulling sensation stopped abruptly.

Senses swiftly came back into focus as she slowly descended into the darkness.

She remained calm as she fumbled for the regulator. She slipped it back into her mouth, but before she could regain her direction, she felt another shove into her ribs. It spun her, disorienting her in the thick blackness. She flashed the torch; saw the familiar shape of the shark blending into the background as it swam away from her. She tried to keep it in her sight, but it was far too fast, and she lost him.

She swung the torch into the dark chasm beneath her feet. The rocks had vanished; her only sanctuary was gone.

She was screaming; the noise loud in her mind, but silent in the ocean. She was descending again, sinking into the cold, sinister depths. She quickly unclipped her weight belt and it dropped away from her. She glanced at her air gauge: ten minutes left; 56 feet down.

She had no choice.

She kicked hard, scrambling for the surface somewhere through the dark haze. She couldn’t stop the panic creeping through her veins like a virus; couldn’t stop thinking about the sinister blackness, the cold deathly silence of an infinite ocean. It felt so long, swimming those 56 feet, and the fear was now soaking up the oxygen and making her feel woozy.

The surface swelled, invited her.

She felt something tug at her left leg, almost wrenching the flipper from her foot. She was breathing hard, fast, sucking up the oxygen and burning the adrenaline in equal quantities. She used her arms, stretched as though reaching out to an invisible hand...

Another tug wrenched her down.

She kicked hard again. It felt as though the flipper had come off.

She thrashed, reaching up once again for the twinkling ripples on the surface, kicking against the current until she finally broke the water. She spat out the regulator, gasped, before sucking in the warm, sultry Caribbean evening.

Water bubbled from her lungs and throat and she coughed hard; phlegm oozed from her nose and mouth as she caught her breath.

She turned; saw the edge of the blood red disc dip below the horizon.

West. Sunset. The boat was facing East. She turned, searched the calm water.

A shape bobbed on the water in the far distance. The boat.

I can make it, she thought. I can do this.

A splash forced water over her, and something latched onto her legs, dragging her back beneath the ocean. A curtain of bubbles veiled her view momentarily, but then, through the maw, she saw the water quickly turn deep crimson.

Another jolt, another direction.

She twisted in the water, saw teeth, then an eye. He was larger than she thought, stronger, and he whipped his tail fin as he jerked away, slamming it in her face. She recoiled, turned in the water, and the torch slipped from her grasp. Water began seeping through the fracture in her goggles.

She pulled at the cracked visor, blinded by the rush of saltwater, and managed to remove it. Now she couldn’t see anything, and the salt stung her eyes.

Her heartbeat thundered through the watery silence. A scream began forming in her throat, but a dull pain in her left leg brought her to. She knew she was badly injured; she was thankful she couldn’t see through the murk, but the heavy sensation down her leg made her realise her left foot was gone.

She sensed the shark nearby. The claustrophobic grip of the darkness frightened her; senses became like sharp needles pressing into her brain. Unable to see, unable to hear through the muffled depths, she knew she was about to die, not unless she started swimming for the surface...air....

She broke the surface once again, gasped, tasted blood in her mouth.

The sky was darker, the boat drifting further away.

No, please, Christ...

She quickly detached the oxygen tank, slipped it off her back. She could swim faster without it. She let go of it, and something clunked against it, startling her. The water swelled as the shark pulled the tank down. Instantly she began swimming for the boat, panic bubbling in her lungs like acid, the sound of her voice bouncing from the rippling surface. She knew he was right behind her, effortlessly gliding through the dark water, following the trail of blood oozing from her wound.

The shape of the boat came into view; safety beckoned. The adrenaline made her swim faster than she thought possible, despite her severed limb, but in those few long minutes, nothing came at her, no attack, even though she knew the shark was lurking in the water beneath her.

She reached the side of the boat, swum aft to the platform. Tears quickly washed the salt from her eyes; relief swept through her. At last, she was safe, she could radio for help, escape this nightmare.

She grabbed the rail, lifted her uninjured leg and kneeled on the platform to remove the flipper. She pulled it off and flung it into the water. She turned; saw the jagged flesh of her ripped calf, the space where her left foot should have been. Her stomach contracted; she balked. She had to get help, fast, otherwise she would bleed to death.

She stared at the water, shuddered. Reflections from the surface glittered coldly in her eyes. ‘I beat you, you son of a bitch! I beat you.’

She turned. Crying, nauseous, she reached up for the top rail.

The waves rose up behind her; swirled with malice. She didn’t see it.

There was no sound. No splash. No scream.

The water fizzed with movement, eddies danced on the surface before becoming calm once more.

Tiny beads of blood dribbled down the wooden rail. The water near the platform quickly turned dark red, before eventually fading.

Darkness swiftly gilded the ocean. Unmanned, the boat drifted silently into the darkness.


BIO:
AJ works full time for a local authority, but in her spare time she write articles for local business magazines, short stories and poetry, and has just completed her first novel.

RINGSIDE By Matthew Quinn Martin

TKnC welcomes Matthew with his little noir tale...

Ringside

“Hey Maurice! Little help over here.” Stick whistled across the dank basement, the sound ringing hollow off the dingy cinderblock walls as he crushed the life out of Todd’s nuts. Kid couldn’t have been more than twenty-two, but I’d say at this point any shot at fatherhood was pretty much gone.
“Maurice?” I asked the three-hundred pound slag heap that usually worked the door at Stick’s club but today was pulling double duty as an extra set of meathooks. “I thought your name was Boiler?”
“Some people call me Maurice,” he rumbled in that Barry White baritone of his. “Because I speak of the pompatus of love.”
Fair enough, I nodded from my perch on the cellars splintery tool bench, letting my legs dangle off the edge like a kid in a high chair as I toyed with a pair of needle-nose pliers.
“I need a break.” Stick cracked his knuckles and stepped aside, allowing his muscle to take over. Watching Boiler go to work, it occurred to me that whatever the pompatus of love might be, it probably didn’t have much to do with this. But hey, this was what passed for entertainment down here.
I’d been practically living at Stick’s club for the past five days. I’d needed to lay low after the Vey-has deal had gone so far south it ended up in Antartica, and Stick owed me. Now I know crashing at a strip club for close to a week might sound like a wet dream come true––but trust me, five days of drugs, booze, and titties and anyone but the densest hocky-haircut, sweatpants sporting, trailer monkey is bound to get bored.
“You gonna’ need these?” I asked, holding up the pliers.
Stick waved me off with a, “Maybe in a minute.” This was just work for him. Business as usual. He didn’t need any temp help from a short-con grifter like me. I hated it. Maybe he was just being hospitable, but I really was beginning to feel about as useless as a set of handlebars on a unicycle.
“Look-ayeEE!…stneEEd…alitlemoret…iIIme!” Todd spit out the almost words between broken teeth and bleeding hamburger lips. Pain didn’t even begin to describe what this kid was in. I caught a glimpse of the tips of his shoes as they struggled to find footing, half-scraping tiny crescents on the grimy concrete. Boiler held him just out of reach of the floor with one of his massive hands. An improbably marvel of evolution those hands; they looked like a couple of char-broiled hams.
Stick had given me the 411 on this conference as we hopped down the rickety iron steps that led to the club’s basement. Todd, one of his street pushers had stepped out of line. They were like sled dogs, he explained. They pulled the weight, but were still just dogs and sometimes had to be disciplined or put down.
Come to the show, he’d said with a wink. Ringside seat.
“Alitlemoret…iIIme! Plee––”
“Take it up with my accountant,” Stick said and on cue Boiler hoisted Todd up another five inches. No scraping now. Just spastic scissors kicks that made the kid’s vocal chords clamp down, pinching his screams to a thin wail.
God this was getting boring. The least they could do was break something on him, a wrist maybe. I twiddled what might have been an awl between my thumb and forefinger. “How about this?” I asked, holding it up. “Do you need this?”
“If you really wanted to help you could have filled up the that can of gas I loaned you.” Stick narrowed his glassy primeval gaze at Todd. “It might have come in handy here.”
“Funny, Stick. That was four years ago––ouch!” I looked down. Seems my carefree handling of the mystery implement had gone netted me a nice puncture wound. I shoved the bleeding digit into my mouth. “Eww ounnidt mappn––” And just as quickly yanked it back out. “Sorry, you wouldn’t happen to have some band-aid brand bandages down here, registered trademark?”
Stick ignored me. “That was a lot of drugs Todd. Where’d it go?”
“AhmaAAgh! FaaghAAm Ma-AA!”
Stick shook his head, then tapped his former NFL linebacker of an enforcer on the shoulder. I could hear Todd practically suck half the air out of the chamber and into his chest as Boiler set him down. I watched the tears stream from the kid’s eyes as oxygen rich blood flooded back into his most prized vascular structure.
“You know this could get infected,” I said to Stick, holding up my thumb, and trying not to let any of the blood drip on to my new Diesel jeans. That poker thing looked rusty too; last thing I needed was a damn tetanus shot. “I wouldn’t want to have to hit you with a law suit, Stick.”
“I said…That was a lot of drugs, Todd! Where’d it go?”
CRACK!
I swear I heard a couple of Todd’s fillings sing like communion bells as Stick laid a heavily ringed backhand to the side of his face.
“I lost it.” Todd’s voice was starting to sound like someone had sent his vocal chords through the Cuisinart. “It was the cops.”
“Really? Which one?” Stick leaned in as Boiler leaned back. “You lost it? Or was it the cops.
“You know I’m getting blood on your tools here,” I said. And in another minute or two that would be true.
“Wouldn’t be the first time,” Stick said flicking me a glance, then turning his full attention to Todd. “Well?”
“I los--it was the…I lost it…I lost it.”
“Yeah, I bet you lost it.” Stick tilted Todd’s head back to get a good look at what was left of the kid’s septum. “I think I know where it went to too. Hand me that ice pick. Maybe I can scrape some back out.”
“An ice pick…that’s what it is.” I could have hit myself. “I thought it might be some sort of leather working--”
“Please…I’m begging you.”
Although I’d never worked in recreational pharmaceutical distribution myself, I knew the drill. Street dealers like Todd worked on commission. Stick would front them the goods, and they’d sell it in smaller amounts at a higher price overall. The smart ones paid for it up front. Then again, the smart ones didn’t dip into their supply either. I could see this kid hadn’t started off full-blown, but it’s easy to forget you’re not a junkie with eight ounces of coke or meth burning a hole in your pocket, or your nose.
Or your brain.
“You took something from me Todd, and you have to pay for it,” Stick said rising to his full height, arms outstretched to the wet cinderblock walls. “There has to be a reckoning.”
Todd shivered. I watched a dark patch spread across his crotch and down his pant leg. An acrid stench hit me square in the nose. The kid pissed himself. Not that it mattered, he’d have done it after he was dead. Just another part of the business. I knew there was a reason for that drain under his feet, and for the garden hose coiled on the wall behind him. For this and for the blood.
I felt a smile creep across my face. I smile a lot, usually just a hyena-rictus, though––a counterfeit reflex there to keep the jack-holes at bay. It’s not often that I’m blessed with the unconscious grace of a true grin. It was as rare a thing as a good hard-on, and I could sense the beginnings of that too.
It’s the way I’m wired, I guess. Sometimes I just need to see someone get hurt. It’s not like I’m alone. That bloodlusty part of the human equation––the one that likes to watch, the one responsible for Roman gladiatoral games and reality TV, for Alabama lynchings and the guillotine––it’s in all of us. For most of civilized society it lurks around at the back of the audience. But make no mistake, it’s never really going to leave. It’s bought its ticket and it wants to see the show.
“Please don’t kill me.”
“Relax, numbnuts. Nobody’s gonna’ kill you,” Stick answered, his voice low, a lullaby lilt. “If we killed you, where would I get my money from?” He turned to me. “Hand me them garden shears, will ya’?”
“Righty dokey,” I said rooting around the scattered tools. I was glad to finally be of some help, be able to shake the feeling of being nothing but a barnacle on Stick’s hull. “These ones?” I asked, holding up a pair of heavy duty pruning shears.
“Yeah, those.”
I ran my thumb across the edge of one blade, dull from over use. It left a red-brown streak. “They look a little rusty.”
“That’s not rust. It’s blood.”
“Oh, yeah. Look at that.” I knew what it was. I’d seen enough dried blood in my day. “Here you go.” I tossed them to Stick who caught them with barely a glance in my direction.
He snapped them open, snipping the air around Todd’s face. “Which hand?”
snip snip snip
You could tell by the glassy look in his eyes that Todd had heard rumors about this. About Stick and his collection. Sometimes it was teeth, occasionally an eye or something a bit more valuable. But his favorite seemed to be fingers.
snip snip snip
“Please, Stick. Don’t do this…please!”
“Which hand do you jerk off with?”
snip snip…snippity snip snip
“Please--”
“I told you! There has to be a reckoning. Now stop being a pussy and pick a fucking hand. Right or left?”
“…”
“Excuse me?” Stick cupped his ear.
“…”
“What was that? Both? I think he said both. Boiler––”
“No wait…” Todd started to crumble into himself, all the air leaving his lungs as he answered, “Left.”
“Right it is then. Maurice, the hand please.”
The kid let loose with a fresh volley of screaming negations and negotiations as Boiler shoved his massive fingers in between Todd’s, splaying them out.
Starting with the pinky and tapping each tip with the shears Stick intoned, “Eany meany miney…” and so on.
I watched Todd’s eyes skipping from finger to finger, trying to out count Stick, hoping to figure out which little piggy was going to get to run screaming all the way to his new home on the dirty cement floor right next to the rusty drain cover.
I was rooting for the thumb.
“…catch a tiger by his toe. Wait, maybe I should I say finger? Nah...toe, toe. Catch a tiger by his toe. Eany meany miney moe.” The point of the shears came to rest on Todd’s right pinky. Stick took a deep breath and, “...my mother told me to--I’m just kiddin.’”
snip
That was it. Pinky on the floor. Todd screeching and clutching his diminished hand as a fresh flow of blood streamed down his forearm.
“Now hit the bricks,” Stick said with an ushering wave. “You got two weeks to get me that money. Two weeks, got it? Or that’ll be your prick on the floor.”
Todd nodded as he grit his teeth to keep from wailing. I watched as his eyes landed on his severed finger lying in the dirt and urine. He shifted on his front foot a couple of times before lurching forward to pick it up.
“Leave it,” Stick commanded. Todd obeyed and beat his retreat up the stairs as Stick retrieved the digit, tossing it to Boiler. “Put that in the jar with the others.”
And I felt that smile take hold again. Five days was what it took to get bored with the naked girlies and the blow. But this…
This was probably good for at least a week or two.

BIO:
Matthew Quinn Martin is an author and screen/play writer and has seen his work published at the Oddsville Press, MFA/MFYou, A Twist of Noir, The Flash Fiction Offensive, Eastern Standard Crime, Thuglit and JMWW.
MQM also collaborates with Libby Cudmore.
http://www.matthewquinnmartin.com/

MONKEY MAN - by Alan Griffiths

The original version of this piece was posted as part of Friday Flash Fiction

MONKEY MAN

Valentine considered his alternatives. Zilch, diddly-squat and jack-shit came back to him as goose pimples rose on his naked, hairy backside in the cool night air.

Below him, sat on the bonnet of the BMW M5 saloon, the goon sparked a match and sucked hard on a cigarette. Unaware of Valentine PI perched precariously on the soil pipe.

Valentine’s fingers gripped the window ledge. His other hand, clutched to his chest, held trousers, boxers, shoes and a sticky, shrivelled latex condom.

Inside he could hear raised voices. Lily, adopting an affronted tone and wiping away crocodile tears as Pork Pie stalked, like a feral tomcat, from room to room.

Valentine’s brief was to watch and report any sign of Lily’s infidelity. She was a young, blue eyed, blonde haired beauty and recently married to violent gangster Pork Pie; nicknamed, not after the staple British meat pie but his love of Ska music, expensive tailored suits and flat top Trilby hats.

Good money and a straight forward case until Valentine’s dick started to do the thinking and Lily’s insatiable sex drive kick started like a Harley. She was all over him like a heat rash before he had a chance to flash his credentials. The PI’s ethical rule book went out the bedroom window and Valentine followed it when Pork Pie returned early from his Soho club.

The goon flipped the glowing butt and sauntered over to the shrubbery, stopping directly below Valentine. He unzipped his fly and let out a low sigh of relief as he splashed the flowerbed.

They were at the top of the stairs. Pork Pie, unaccustomed to being answered back, raised his voice and then his hand. Cold, harsh slaps made Valentine wince and then the front door slammed with enough ferocity to take it off the hinges.

“Put that away and zip up your strides,” barked Pork Pie, straightening his flat topped hat and crunching gravel on the driveway with his Italian leather brogues. “Think of the bleedin neighbours.”

The goon sniggered. “It’s supposed to be good for the roses boss.”

Pork Pie fired up a fat Cuban. “She’s hiding something.” He pulled a mobile phone from his suit jacket and blew a cloud of blue tinged smoke. “Where the fuck’s that half-arsed excuse for a Private Dick? I’m paying him to be on the job twenty four seven.”

Behind them the front door swung open. Lily was illuminated by the hallway light, looking bedraggled, bruised and bloody. A sports holdall, stuffed full, sat at her feet.

“Bastard!” she shouted. Her smudged makeup and ripped black lace babydoll nightie gave the impression that she had been dragged backwards, kicking and screaming, through a hedge. “At least that good looking snooper didn’t need a jar of Viagra and a couple of glasses of Dutch courage to get his pecker up.”

She then proceeded to Frisbee Pork Pie’s seven inch vinyl collection. Pork Pie watched, open mouthed, as one by one his precious records were plucked from the holdall and spun through the air.

“I’ll have Valentine’s balls in a fucking vice,” roared a furious Pork Pie as another rare 2 Tone disc splintered at his feet. His stubby, calloused fingers stabbed at the mobile phone.

Valentine felt his trousers vibrate in his hand and the condom shrivelled some more. He closed his eyes, saying a silent prayer as his ringtone greeted the night with a loud....

‘This one’s for the bouncers. Big, big... Monkey Man! Aye, aye, aye, aye, aye, aye!’


BIO:
Alan Griffiths is a rookie writer, from London, England. He has a keen interest in reading and writing Crime Fiction, particularly Noir and Pulp. His short fiction can been found on A Twist of Noir, Blink-Ink, Pulp Pusher, Powder Burn Flash, The Flash Fiction Offensive, Thrillers, Killers n Chillers and Six Sentences. He blogs here: http://britgrit.blogspot.com/

GHOST STORY - by Lily Childs

A chiller with a difference from 'Our Lil'...

GHOST STORY

I am the Narrator.

I speak to you on our behalf, elected by the masses.

Don’t bend our words with pseudo-channellings. Don’t lay claim to speak with us, through us.

We hear you. We do not want to be you.

Leave your séances to the Victorian parlour. Why reach out for us? Why drag us back when we do not want to return? Use your time better to expose the clever fakes and frauds in your midst who claw in your money; who feed on your vulnerable despair, your loneliness.

Why do you seek so? Let be. Let go of those you have loved, who have left. Invest not in angels. Believe not in totems from other races, and other places.

‘But we hear you,’ you cry. Of course. When we have something to say or convey, we make ourselves known. The isolated, heady-scent of Damask Rose in a single spot in your house; water tumbling from washer-tight taps; a freezing cold finger at the nape of your neck in the heatwave of summer.

You talk of crossing over, of passing, of reaching the light. There perhaps you do not err. But you and your television stars, your phone lines and your churches – you do not own the process. You do not, can not even begin to comprehend what you will experience when death takes you. The heavens or hells of which you dream or fear… they have no place here. All is one.

Our shadows; we leave them as reminders. Walking through walls, falling from nooses. These are but echoes of our lives, memories imprinted on the atmosphere; we do not reside there.

Neither does the Cleopatra you so desperately seek dwell in our realm. She is of The Goddess; she is not available to you. Even if she did roam our halls of spirit, you are arrogant to expect that she would deign to parlay with you, or to reincarnate into the thousands of you who claim to recall her life. You are deluded. You remember what your museums and your history books and your TV and your Internet tell you; the Lady’s soul laid bare in the public eye. Understand me now – you are not she.

You, with your tarot cards and crystal ball. You reach dangerously into the veil, seeking out futures for those afraid to leave the past, or live in the present.

You surround yourselves with crystals; with precious stones sparkling and beauteous. They speak to you of healing and love, of unreal benediction. In your perfect world of spiritual ecstasy, are you really so blind, so ignorant? Across the oceans children are forced into caves and chasms to retrieve your pretty gems. Is your ego soothed? Do you not hear the Earth scream as she is raped again and again? How do you reconcile your sweet rose quartz with the death of an innocent? How does your amethyst feel in your hand when I tell you that explosions roar through Gaia’s core to get to that purple jewel? She is the Gaia you claim to love.

I come at the behest of all souls who have trodden this Earth, who still roam her surface unseen – overlapping by the millions – to give you fair warning.

Time matters not to us. But you, who live your lives by it, your time, is running out. While populations live longer and longer in an age where men can become women and women can conceive without man; in an era when your scientists are making copies of every one of you so that they can replace your organs, or limbs or synapses when they fail – it seems as though you could live forever.

Take heed. We do not want to delay your arrival. Neither do we want to greet you sooner than expected. But you are destroying the Great Mother who keeps you alive. You drive, you smoke, you heat the air with your microwaves and your energies and your smog and your world-traversing networks and your rotting food and your chemicals and your plastics. You can not, you will not survive.

I am telling you now, as The Narrator of our lives and yours, that we will soon be amongst you. We are coming to ease the transcendence into our realm.

When you see me peering round your door out of the corner of your eye, turn and face me. Reach out and take my hand. I will bring you home.

If you hear me in the static, white noise of technology – your television, radio, computer, hearing aid, telephone… bid me welcome. I will help you on your journey.

When lights flicker before your eyes; when your reflection in the mirror fades; when I appear – solid – in front of you, then join me. I will ease the way.

You call us ghosts. Perhaps we are. But hear this. Tomorrow, you will be ghosts too.


© Lily Childs, October 2009
http://lilychildsfeardom.blogspot.com
http://micheleranger.blogspot.com

CONTENTS MAY VARY - by Mark Robinson

Mark debuts...

CONTENTS MAY VARY

‘Shine the torch over here; I’m not seeing it.’

It was two am; about thirty-two hours after his guests had left the restaurant and, maybe, sixteen hours since they all started to get sick.

Food poisoning was written on the forms accompanying the bodies; the food part caged inside brackets and counter-signed by the shaky hand holding on to the torch.

‘Come on, hurry up; you want me to lose my job?’ The smell was overpowering, even to Tyrone who should have been used to it after his time working in the hospital. But, like death itself, Tyrone maintained it was something he would never get used to.

‘If you wanna roll your sleeves up and give me a hand, I’ll be done a lot quicker.’ Rubbing his running nose with the back of his bloody wrist; unsure but convinced he’d, somehow, managed to smear their blood on his face.

‘Forget it; this is your mess; you sort it out.’ Tyrone was only there so his mate wouldn’t be arrested; he felt like reminding Paul of the fact but realised he was just repeating himself.

And, what a mess it was; all Paul had been trying to do was show off the diamond engagement ring he was planning to pass on to his girlfriend, Amanda, for the elaborate dinner he had arranged. Whether it was the Salmon pate for starters or the bourguignon sauce; the ring must have slipped from his fingers and dropped into one of the pans lined along the stove.

It wasn’t until he came to get up off his chair and bend before her that he realised the ring was missing. Leaving his guests; their families and friends, Paul rounded up the kitchen staff and, together, they dredged the pots, pans and trays but the ring was gone.

Looking out across the dining hall of seated guests enjoying the celebrations, all of them unaware what they were actually present to celebrate, realisation hit him that the ring was out there somewhere; should he tell them and ruin the surprise for Amanda? A three-hundred pound diamond ring that had belonged to his mother and his father’s mother? He had to do something, but what?

Gary, his Suez-chef, told him to wait it out; if someone had swallowed it accidentally, they would surely find out when it passed through them the next day. That idea was all well and good until the diners started getting sick. Worse still when his mate, Tyrone who worked at the hospital, rang up and told him two of his soon-to-be-fiancé’s cousins were dead.

Soon the hospital admittance form read like the restaurant guest list; reading through the names of his extended family while he waited for the consultant to finish with Amanda. Later, at his dying girlfriend’s bedside, Paul had an idea; with nothing left to lose now everyone he cared about were either on their hospital or death beds, he text Tyrone and asked him to meet in the basement outside the morgue.

Neither of them knew what they were doing; Paul was a chef, whereas Tyrone worked in a hospital, granted, but that didn’t qualify him to be doing this. He was just a glorified porter; someone who signed the bodies in and out.

The sight and aroma of his food during digestion left little to the imagination; all that hard work and dedicated preparation it underwent before the plate was allowed to even leave the kitchen, now seemed like such wasted effort. He would cry if there were any tears left to shed; Amanda and this whole situation had seen to that. Was it his fault that the guests were keeling over? Was his cooking that bad? Being so busy, Paul had had little chance to sample the food and, for that, he was overwhelmed with guilt.

Not so with Tyrone; the fact that he was scheduled to cover a late shift meant he had missed the meal and was still standing, albeit in a dark morgue basement holding onto a torch while his best mate sifted through the stomach contents of his family and friends.

‘Anything yet?’ Tyrone was getting nervous; but, that was hardly a shock, he had a nervous disposition normally.

No reply except the sounds of forced breathing and effort.

‘Paul!’ Louder; an octave above a whisper.

‘What?!’ On his knees above a mass of mess, squinting against a beam of torch light. Bringing out the deep colour red around the stark white room sheathed in shadows.

‘Have you found it, yet?’ A stupid question that floated in the air between them; did he really think they would still be standing there if Paul had managed to find it? And, who would clean up the mess; someone would notice this tomorrow morning.

A noise startled them; stopped Paul from giving Tyrone the response he deserved. From outside, along the corridor, they waited like wax mannequins eyes wide toward the sound as they heard it again; a squeaking whinge like something rolling across a tile floor.

In a second, the torch beam disappeared and they were both swamped in darkness; ‘Hide!’

Paul had nowhere to go; up to his wrists in his girlfriend’s uncle, he reached for a steady surface and shot toward the back of the room, unsure if a trail of someone else’s blood would lead whoever should enter to his hiding place.

The door bounced open and brilliant light blinkered them both; Paul on his knees beneath a bench and Tyrone behind a door. Then, the room went still; like breath caught in someone’s throat; Paul guessed it was the scene he had set. Looking down at his bloody hands, then up to the streaks that had brought him over.

It was probably all over, anyway; from the questions being asked by the police at Amanda’s bedside. He was the cook so it was all his fault. Paul knew he shouldn’t have brought Tyrone into all this. About to rise from the cold floor, he heard the double doors slam shut and a lock being slid into place.

Had the person gone? A few squeaks told him no.

‘We’re locked in.’ A loud call that echoed slightly around the room.

Paul didn’t answer; neither did Tyrone. Like him, he probably wanted to know who it was. And, why they had decided to lock themselves inside. Apart from the obvious, something else was wrong.

‘Don’t make me drag you out of wherever it is you’re hiding; I’ve got somewhere else to be tonight.’

That voice; now he heard more of it, Paul realised it was being masked. Yet, sounded, familiar; like a caller on the phone chewing gum while they spoke.

Scanning the brightness for a weapon; he’d had a scalpel in his hand earlier, where was it now? Lying beside the last body.

Movement followed by a light scrape registered; ‘Hey, Paul? You forgot your scalpel, Paul.’

He knew his name; was Tyrone as worried as he was?

‘I just spoke to Amanda; shocking what a bit of food poisoning can do to the nervous system.’

Teeth clamped tight against his jaw, Paul refused to be drawn out; if this was the end, whoever it was would have to drag him out.

‘And, to think; of all the people I wanted to be lying in this room, staring at their eyelids and you’re all right, Paul. At least have the decency to fight for her like I have.’

Paul knew then that it was Gary; the kid he had partnered with through secondary school then college; had stuck to through every little high and low their lives had struck; that was, until they met Amanda.

Somehow, ever since they got it together behind his best mate's back, Paul knew this day would come; although begrudgingly standing aside, Gary had never been the same since he caught them, mouth agape like it was his girlfriend who was half-naked and not Paul’s. Their friendship had slowly spiralled; first Paul succeeded in capturing Amanda’s heart over Gary, then the head chef job before him. Lately, it had been their engagement which lead to marriage, a family equalling happiness. Maybe, that was the final after dinner mint in the box.

‘You wanted my life, Paul; my girl, my job. Then take this, too.’

Just because Gary had met Amanda before him; just because Gary had got his application in first; it had not been Paul’s intention to go after her, she had chosen him; yes, he wanted that job, but it wouldn’t have been the end of the world if he didn’t get it.

What was Tyrone thinking right now? A mutual friend from school, would he be siding with Gary now he knew this? He wanted to speak up but felt at fault, like he deserved all this; that he had been greedy in getting what he always wanted.

‘And, in the end, all you really care about is that ring; that object over the woman of our dreams. If it was me, Paul, I’d be right beside her rather than cowering in here. But, then, you and me; we’re not even the same species are we.’

Tears in his eyes, Paul leapt up from beneath the bench, whirling around to make a stand; ‘You think I wanted this?’ Waiting for Gary to bound around the corner. ‘That ring meant everything to her; if only she got to wear it for a second before she dies; after what you did to her.’ Anger curling up his fists; adrenalin surging through his feet. ‘If she dies Gary.’

Tyrone had to say something; he’d stood there as quietly as Paul had crouched until the outpour began. Blocked by the door, he had watched the morning porter bringing in the body; not realising until that moment that his shift here was over. Leaving the lights on and body inside the entrance; taking the scene in that greeted him; all that blood; those hollowed out stomachs. Before turning to go, locking the doors as he went; standard procedure when foul play was suspected.

Tyrone, in so much trouble when security came back, took a step closer and saw it was Gary lying there, dead beneath the sheet. A silence in the room so huge it had been deafening.

That was, until Paul started shouting.

© Mark Robinson April 2009.

BIO:
Previous writing has appeared on Sunk Island Review, Microhorror.com, Hackwriters.com, Manchester’s Transmission Magazine, Birmingham’s Raw Edge Magazine, Short Story Library (US), Txtlit.co.uk, Post Card Shorts, Enigma and the Lulu Anthology, Never Hit by Lightning, Edited by Tucker Lieberman & Andrew Tivey.
Forthcoming publications in 2010 include A Thousand-faces & Delivered.

FUCKED! - by David Barber

David's back, but a word of warning...there's a lot of swearing in this one...just noticed the title...oh, fuck!

FUCKED!

“It shouldn’t have fucking happened that way: it was supposed to run smoothly and no-one was supposed to get hurt.”

“Oh, we’re fucked. Oh, we’re fucked. We’re fucked…fucked…fucked.”

“Will you shut the fuck up Graham and calm down.”

“But, we are fucked though.”

“NO! we’re not fucked, Joe. You can calm down as well and shut the fuck up.”

Tony sat at his kitchen table alone, hands covered in blood, swearing too much at the voices...


BIO:
Manchester born and bred, but now living in Crieff, Scotland with wife, Lisa, and our two daughters, Imogen & Melissa. Recently inspired to write again by an old and good friend (Col Bury) and the beauty that surrounds me up here. Always reading - when not entertaining my girls and working - crime and horror…and now writing. David blogs here.